For Rocio Bogota Colombia
She was ready to cast his memories into the dustbin of oblivion
When she saw an envelope with multiple stamps, colourful from a country with a strange name
The cursive writing of her name gave a pang to her heart
Could this be from Maqroll El Gaviero Judio, Yehuda ?
It began, ever since I left the cordillera that had cut my heart into two of your native land of eternal spring, I tried to wash your memory with my tears, flowing like the waterfalls that dot your country’s landscape . A somnambulistic customs officer had mistaken my offerings to various Gods as something counterfeit and now I sit in the cold bench of a detention cell in an airport where multitudes enter illegally seeking their fortune. I had my legal but forged passport from Uruguay in which the photo is grainy as the artist crafting those illegal documents in the backstreets of Beirut lacked the proper chemicals to add colour to my face.
After some curious interrogations from the police, I was allowed to leave the immigration hall into the steamy heat of tropics which reminded me of days I had wandered lost in the Amazon forest . Adjusting to the glaring sun, he realised that the friendly immigration officer was also a pick pocket who had taken not only his fake ray ban sunglasses as well as the various hallucinogenic powders he had collected
